


The Tea Party

by LegendaryBard



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 01:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17695295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendaryBard/pseuds/LegendaryBard
Summary: The Mad Hatter is intent on hosting a tea party, whether his guests are willing or not.Scarecrow /really/ isn’t happy about being there.





	1. Chapter 1

Crane’s awakening was not an _awakening;_ that was to say, it was not like _being awoken._ There was no gentle emergence from slumber or startled jerk to life. He wasn't even asleep; he was _idle,_ like a humming car engine or a blackened computer screen, waiting for the pedal to be touched or the mouse to be jogged. He came from an idle nothing into a sudden whirl of color and sound.

His hands were cuffed to the arms of his chair, and the chair was bolted to the ground.

A lot was processed all at once: he was at a table, an ornately laid table, long enough to seat, perhaps, a dozen people. Chairs, much like his own, had been laid out, and most of them were occupied by be-hatted men and women.

 _Familiar_ be-hatted men and women. The Joker was sitting across from Crane.

The madman’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, which were glassy and lifeless; while he did blink on occasion, it did nothing to sluice away the dazed film. He had a hat on, dark purple, with a low crown and a wide brim. It was there, between hat and hatband, the culprit for the clown’s unnatural silence and stillness made itself evident: a thin card stenciled with 10/6.

The Riddler was on Crane’s right, his green bowler sporting a slender new decoration. He, too, was cuffed to his chair, with both hands shackled. He was as blank and inanimate as the Joker, features frozen other than the mechanical circulating of breath and blinking.

Crane wagged his head back and forth. He could feel the tail of his patchwork hat bobble with the motion, and he knew, without needing to see it, that there was a card in the band. His instinct was to divest himself of the hat, as quickly as possible, but a violent shake didn’t dislodge it. Neither did extensive thrashing. It was glued, taped, tied, whatever method; he wouldn’t be able to get it off without his hands.

He cast his sight out to anything that might have been of use in freeing himself, and in doing so, spotted a tea party guest that made his breath quicken: _Batman._

He, too, had been made Hatter’s puppet. The blank look on his face and his upright posture said that he was dormant, not unconscious, like everyone else at the table.

Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy were seated not far away, staring with sightless eyes; the outline of a card protruded from Harley’s hood, and a rose behind Ivy’s ear held tightly onto the thin 10/6. Penguin breathed mindless and steady, a card placed in his hat band. The final guest proved to be the Ventriloquist, sporting an uncharacteristic hat that Crane couldn’t recall him wearing. Scarface was absent, and grimly, Crane realized why: the casting would be wrong.

Crane was the March Hare. He knew as much, because he’d been called it before.

Riddler was the Dormouse, a title he also already had.

Joker was the Cheshire Cat.

Penguin must’ve been the Caterpillar.

The Ventriloquist was the White Rabbit, possibly…

Ivy must’ve been the Queen. Harley liked the Hatter too much to be the Queen, which meant the clown accomplice must have been the Duchess.

And Batman could only be the Jabberwock.

That left a few roles unfilled, though: Alice, for one. The King, for another. The Mock Turtle, the Gryphon, the Mouse; perhaps all too difficult or unimportant to have a seat at the table.

And, of course, there was still the matter of the hatter.

“Tetch,” Crane called, straining against the bindings. They were metal, not rope; he hadn’t a chance to break free, but he tried, regardless. “Tetch, I’m not going to play these games with you!”

He looked down at himself, then out at everyone else; he expected Arkham uniforms, or perhaps Wonderland dress, but they were all in their own costumes. Crane struggled to recall anything before this point- what he had been doing when he was captured- but it was difficult to recollect. His mind was spotted with color and whimsy, the sound of pouring tea and the smell of baked tarts.

He hated Hatter’s cards.

“Jervis,” He tried, calling out to no-one. There was an empty chair on Crane’s left, where the Hatter ought to have sat, but he was nowhere to be seen. In fact, Crane was decently certain he wasn’t even in the room; there was no place to hide except under the table.

The room was fairly cramped, though large enough to fit the table, the guests, and a few extra feet of space between the walls. The ceiling was low, perhaps seven or eight feet, and there were no windows; all the light was cast by a crackling fluorescent bulb overhead. It was the kind of place that would make a claustrophobic sweat, but not start screaming.

The walls were painted amateurishly- Hatter’s work, Crane presumed- with Wonderland features. There were towering mushrooms in an impossible array of vibrant colors, and looming, arrow-shaped black trees that hung threateningly over them. From where he was sitting, Crane could see a rendition of the Queen of Heart’s castle in the distance, and the Gryphon soaring over a mushroom grove.

The floor was painted, too, though that was giving Hatter too much credit. He’d thrown brown paint on the ground and tossed in handfuls of dirt to give the illusion that their tea-table was in the middle of a forest.

“What the hell?”

Crane turned, slightly. Nygma had awoken, and he was staring, bewilderedly, around.

“It’s Tetch,” Crane said, interrupting the Riddler before he could say anything else. Nygma ferociously struggled with his bonds and attempted to tip his bolted chair over for a good few minutes before he gave up.

“What kind of hare-brained little scheme has that tiny-minded milliner put us up to _now?”_ Nygma complained, his nasal whine an uncomfortable familiarity to Crane. They were in neighboring cells at Arkham more than once.

“Tea,” Crane said.

“Yes, but wh—” Riddler’s eyes widened into saucers when he located the immobile Batman, and Crane thought he detected a glint of fear, before it became eagerness. “He’s captured the Bat?”

“Something that you could never accomplish,” Crane said, loftily, unable to resist. “Impressive, I think.”

“You be quiet, you narrow-minded fear fetishist,” Riddler sneered. “ _I_ was working on a cunning scheme to capture the Batman when the Hatter—”

His sentence stopped, mouth poised around the shape of a word, but he was very obviously blanking on what actually happened.

“I can’t remember, either,” Crane volunteered, for the sake of Riddler’s own ego.

“I’ve never had Hatter stick a card on me before,” Nygma said, slightly less haughty than last he spoke. “Is it always like this? My mouth tastes like treacle— but, no, it’s not— it’s not like _real_ treacle.”

“Because it isn’t,” Crane said. “It’s our minds trying to fit pieces together. Phantom senses the Hatter was manipulating while we were under the influence of his cards.”

“I know that, you burlap-bagged dolt,” Nygma scoffed. “I was simply trying to communicate some modicum of confusion. Clearly, I over-exaggerated.”

Crane resisted the urge to respond with something petty.

“Riddle me this, Crane,” Nygma tilted his head up. “Why are _we_ the only ones awake right now?”

“I assume Hatter is waking us up one at a time. I believe it’s in the order of who he likes best. Harley should be next.” Crane responded.

“Oh? And how do you figure that?”

“Because I’m the March Hare and you’re the Dormouse—”

“Wait, the lazy one who can’t get through a sentence without falling asleep?”

“— Who, in the story, were the Hatter’s friends—”

“Why am _I_ the Dormouse? You slept more than me at Arkham! I am driven! I am not—”

“Spare me the tantrum, Nygma,” Crane said, tight and icy. “I’m not the one who picked. It’s Tetch.”

“Hooboy… Tied to a chair with a bunch of weirdos! This some new kinda group therapy?” As Crane predicted, Harley Quinn was the next to awaken, happily interrupting them. She shook her head, dangling pom-poms swinging freely.

“Well, my brilliant deductive reasoning and mental acuity leads me to believe,” Riddler began, air of smug superiority beginning to leak from him like an odorous fog, “We’ve all been captured by the Mad Hatter.”

“Holy crap! Is that Batman?” Harley’s head was turned, lips in a small “o”. “How’d Hatter get _him?”_

“The question, my dear, is how he managed to subdue _any_ of us,” Crane said. “Once he had a few of us under his control, I assume Batman would be easy to temporarily overpower. Are either of you in any pain?”

They both shook their heads. Interesting. Jervis wasn’t what Crane would call _subtle,_ or _sneaky,_ and he highly doubted the excitable little haberdasher would be able to creep up and pounce on everyone in here without getting caught at least once.

“Oh, Mistah J— and _Red—_ and Pengy? And Wesky, too? But no Scarface…” Harley quickly took a headcount. “And Hatter ain’t here, neither.”

“He must be closeby,” Crane said.

“Well, of course! His charming, primitive little ‘ _card and_ _headband’_ technology only works at short ranges, you know,” Riddler jumped on the chance to condescendingly elaborate. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was just outside the room!”

“Anybody know what he wants?” Harley asked. “‘Cos if I know Mistah J, he’s more likely to get a knuckle sandwich than money.”

“I think he wants tea,” Crane said.

“Who knows what _enigmas_ run the mind of lesser beings?” The Riddler said, morosely. “I have a bat to kill and here that wretched little haberdasher is, wasting my precious time on kidnapping me and handcuffing me to a chair!”

“I don’t exactly wanna be here either, geek,” Harley said, hotly.

They froze.

Crane’s eyes flicked between the two. It was no natural stillness- it was the cards, the _cards._ How many times had this happened already? How many times had they all woken up, only to bicker and be re-set at the Hatter’s whim?

Crane would not give Hatter a reason to shut him down. He was going to play along.

There were many more long moments of silence, and finally, another of the tea party guests stirred. Joker shook his head, blinking in the light, and looked around.

“This isn’t Arkham,” he noted aloud. It took him a moment of careful observation, but he eventually singled out Crane as the only other guest with a functioning brain. “What’s going on, straw man?”

“The Hatter,” Crane said. He thought very briefly of coveting Riddler’s and Harley’s fates like a secret, a treasure to be closely guarded; but perhaps the objective was for them to all work together. Like an escape room. “Be careful. Arguing will get your card turned back on.”

“But that’s what I’m best at!” Joker said, distressed. “That, and the mutilation of screaming grown men— Wait a minute, is that _Batsy_ over there?”

“Yes,” Crane said, with more patience than the clown prince of crime deserved.

“He got roped into this, too? Ohhh, when I get that to that little hat-wearing tangle of bad teeth and greasy hair I’ll—”

It was almost disconcerting how he smoothly dropped into a vacant smile.

“Hatter,” Crane called, hoping Tetch would heed him. When that produced no fruit, he struggled to recall lines from the book. _“... ‘No room, no room’!”_

Feeding his delusions was not a good thing. Crane knew this. But he found that when working with homicidal madmen, especially ones who had you tied to a chair and could shut your mind completely off, telling them what they wanted to hear was better than threats or attempts at coaxing them out of their fantasy.

Hatter was seized by compulsion, as Crane thought he would be. Muffled, through the walls, Tetch responded:

_“‘There’s plenty of room!’”_

Wine. The next line was about wine.

 _“‘Have some wine’,”_ Crane attempted, hesitantly.

 _“‘I don’t see any wine!’”_ Tetch exulted. “Oh, I knew it would be _you_ who caught on, Hare!”

“Where are you, Hatter?” Crane asked. His ears weren’t the sharpest, but he listened, keenly.

 _“‘That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,’”_ Tetch murmured, almost inaudible. “I am waiting! Waiting until everyone gets in line.”

“That won’t happen, Hatter. Let us go and I’ll promise to only give you a _low_ dose of fear toxin.” Crane said, restraining himself rather well, in his opinion.

A shrill giggle reached Crane’s ears. “‘ _I didn’t know it was your table,’ said Alice; ‘It’s laid for a great many more than three.’”_

“This is getting tiresome, Tetch!” Crane called, loudly. “Come out and I’ll—”

The ceiling abruptly swung open— or, more accurately, a small two foot by two foot trapdoor was lifted up. There was a few seconds of odd-sounding scuffling, then a rickety folding ladder protruded into the room. A moment later, the squat milliner climbed down, holding tightly onto his hat. He beamed, his overlarge teeth glinting in the artificial light.

“Take the card out of my hat band, Tetch,” Crane ordered.

The Hatter smiled. “I don’t want to,” He said, tone triumphant, as if the declaration settled the matter. Which, Crane supposed, it did.

“What _do_ you want, Jervis?”

“A nice tea-party,” the Hatter said. “With you, the Dormouse, and everyone else.”

“You’re off your medication again,” Crane accused.

“It doesn’t help, anyway,” Hatter said, loftily, as he brushed past Crane towards his seat. “I had _planned_ to free you all one at a time, so you could get used to it. But now I’ll wake you all up together / it’ll just be something we have to weather.”

“You’re going to die for this, Hatter,” Crane snapped. “You’ll be lucky if there’s enough left of you for—”

“‘ _You shant be beheaded,’ said Alice, and she put them into a large flower-pot that stood near.”_ Tetch responded, smartly. “ _They’re dreadfully fond of beheading people here; the great wonder is, that there’s anyone left alive!_ I think, perhaps, we’ll see if the Jabberwock would be the next good choice to awaken—”

“No!” Crane objected, hurriedly. “Do you _want_ to get thrown in Arkham again?”

The Hatter gave him a thoughtful look over his shoulder. Long strands of greasy yellow hair dangled in his face. “ _Beware the Jabberwock, my son—”_

Crane had lost his patience. “Tetch, I am going to—”

=

Crane woke up, though it was not an awakening. His head was thick. He was hungry, even though his mouth tasted of buttered bread.

“Does anyone else feel like crap?” Harley croaked. “Oh, God.”

Crane’s memories swirled like the vortex of a drain; there were many, quick and fast, hurriedly siphoned away. He couldn’t quite recall how he got here.

“Where the hell _are_ we?”

“Where’s Mr. Scarface!?”

Was the hunger real? Crane hadn’t the faintest idea. Hatter’s cards rewired your mind. Made you feel what _he_ wanted you to feel.

How long had they been _down_ here, at this point?

“Just in case any of your tiny minds can’t keep up, we have all been abducted by the Mad Hatter,” Nygma declared.

“Brilliant deduction, genius,” Cobblepot sneered. “Couldn’t’a bloody guessed that meself from the cards in yer hats and the great bloomin’ mushroom art.”

“Well, I had to be sure that your Neanderthal intellect was keeping up with the current situation.” And Riddler, of course, pronounced it _Nee-ander-tall._ “I wouldn’t want anyone getting left behind.”

“Quiet,” the hated voice brought the din at the table down to a simmer, as every head turned to the Batman.

“Ha-ha! You’re _trapped,_ Bats!” Joker said, triumphantly.

“So are we,” Ivy told him, in a tone that could’ve curdled milk. “I can’t even feel any roots nearby… Where _are_ we?”

There was a little bit of silence; no one knew the answer. Riddler wiggled, trying to get a better look around at everything.

“Is anyone else hungry?” Harley asked, breaking the temporary quiet.

“Starvin’,” Cobblepot groaned.

“I— I am,” Wesker volunteered, nervously.

“I’d kill for something to eat,” Joker said. “But I’d kill for a lot of things. Fun, for example.”

“I may need some form of nourishment,” relinquished the Riddler, with a reluctant flicker of his eyes to the side.

Batman began struggling. Struggling with some weight behind it, with _purpose,_ like he had a plan how to get out. Everyone watched, suddenly interested in how he would escape (for research purposes) until they realized that once he got out the first thing he’d do would be beat the Hatter into submission and haul them all back to Arkham.

“You’re gonna let us out, right, Batsy?” Joker prompted, fluttering his lashes. “You wouldn’t just leave us here, would you?”

“Of course I’ll let you out,” Batman said. “I’ll even take you to Arkham myself.”

The clown’s smile waned. “Oh, _whoopie._ ”

There was a sudden sound of pattering footsteps up above- Everyone froze, all at once, straining to hear.

“ _Twinkle, twinkle, little bat…”_ Tetch’s voice drifted over them, accompanying the rattling of china plates. “ _How I wonder where you’re at…”_

“Everyone stay quiet,” Batman ordered, softly.

“I don’t have to listen to _you,_ rodent,” Nygma said, rudely.

“Yeah, B-Man, you ain’t the boss of us,” Harley jerked her chin up. “What’s Hatter gonna do?”

“Turn you into an Alice,” Batman said, tersely. “I need more time. You all need to distract him.”

“Work _with_ you?” Joker wrinkled his nose. “That’s a _terrible_ idea.”

“Worse than dying?” Batman shot back.

“... Well, maybe not,” conceded the Joker.

“If I may,” Crane said. Attentive heads turned, some more grudgingly than others. “How many of you actually know _Alice in Wonderland_ that well?” 

“Oh, please.” Nygma boasted. “I have a perfect memory! I remember every sentence, every line!”

The Batman’s cool glare told Crane all he needed to know.

“Just the three of us, then?” Crane surmised.

“I read it, once,” Wesker said, timidly.

“Do you remember any lines?”

“No…”

“Then you’re useless.” Crane told him. Wesker nodded, gulping nervously.

Wesker was used to it. Most of his life was probably him being told he was useless… Crane’s mind momentarily indulged interest in what the Ventriloquist’s deepest fears would look like, racing off track like a greyhound that spotted a rabbit.

Crane reigned himself in. Not now.

“ _How cheerfully he seems to grin, how neatly spreads his claws—_ uff—” The trap-door was hauled upward. _“And welcomes little fishes in—”_

“With gently smiling jaws.” Crane muttered. The choice of poem did not bode well for their fate. But…

He knew Tetch from a distance. He had studied the man’s case, schizophrenia and obsessive-compulsion, intensely focused on Alice in Wonderland. Crane had even run a scheme or two- albeit short ones- with Tetch’s help. (The hatter’s technology was a marvel, and worked remarkably well at disabling potentially dangerous opponents without needing a single punch to be thrown.) They’d broken out of Arkham together at one point, though “together” was, maybe, a loose word for it. More like Tetch had followed Crane with a shining glint of excited delirium in his eyes, only to go his separate way once they left the island.

He was unsure whether or not Tetch liked him, but was _certain_ it would be a sin for the Hatter to slay the Hare.

Tetch began climbing down the ladder, a delicately poised tea-tray in one hand. He was met with an immediate accosting from some of the captive tea-party guests.

“Oi, short stack—” Penguin barked.

“Oh, you’re one to talk, four-foot-ten—” snickered Joker.

“— Name your price to let me out of this bleedin’ nuthouse!” Penguin finished, ignoring Joker’s smart remark.

“My price? My price?” The Hatter chortled. “ _‘It’s very rude of him,’ she said, ‘To come and spoil the fun!’_ I don’t want money. I want a nice little tea-party!”

“And you’ll let us go afterward?” Ivy asked, sharply.

“Of course, your Majesty,” The Hatter said, voice dripping with sincerity. “I understand that you have croquet to play and bad gardeners to behead.”

The prospect of beheading plant abusers seemed to appease Poison Ivy, for the moment, who leaned back in her chair. The “your Majesty” had gone over well, too.

Nervous mutterings died off as the Hatter set down his overlarge tea-tray and began arranging things. The sight of food roused Crane’s hunger, which battled a sweeping tide of nausea for a place in his stomach. The other tea-party guests stared, hungrily, at the assortment of tarts, breads, and tea; Penguin stingy, Joker territorial, Wesker longing, Ivy reserved, Harley unabashed, and Riddler attempting  to look disinterested and failing. The Bat was entirely blank.

“Oh, delightful, delightful,” The Hatter beamed. “Everyone’s behaving themselves, and without the need for a card! Perhaps this will be a most frabjous tea-party after all!”

“Pardon me, my dear, diminutive friend,” The Riddler said. It sounded like a very pathetic attempt to act humble. “How do you expect us to eat while we’ve been chained down?”

The Hatter paused for a moment. “ _If I or she should chance to be— involved in this affair, he trusts you to set them free…”_

“Tetch,” the Batman spoke up. “Why don’t you loosen one of our hands so we can eat?”

The idea was enthusiastically greeted by everyone at the table, who quickly realized what Batman was doing.

“How else are we expected to take our tea, yeah?” Penguin reasoned. “Can’t bloody well drink it without our ‘ands.”

“Oh, please, Hatty?” Harley begged, as sweet as a sugarcube. “I jus’ wanna have one of those tasty-lookin’ tarts—”

“An intellectual such as _myself_ can’t be reduced to slurping up tea like a pig,” The Riddler agreed.

“Surely you won’t make a _lady_ eat without her hands?” Ivy all but purred.

It seemed like it would persuade him for a moment, but Crane knew what was going to happen. Tetch may have been mad, but he wasn’t a fool.

“Tsk, tsk! Maybe we do have to work on attitudes before the tea party can begin!” The Hatter tutted. “Of course I won’t unchain your hands! _Beware the Jabberwock, my son, the jaws that bite, the claws that catch!_ It won’t be off with _my_ head any-time soon, so your hands will stay where they are.”

“Ohh, I have had about enough of you,” the Joker seethed, his characteristic smile turning to a nasty sneer: “Listen, you miserable pile of waste, when we get out of here, and when _I_ get out of Arkham, I’m going to turn _you_ into a _skin hat.”_

Crane knew what was coming, but he didn’t warn the Joker of his impending fate. He had been told of the cards’ power already.

Joker’s snarl froze, then softened into something  placid and expressionless.

“Puddin’?” Harley asked, nervously, in the ensuing silence. “Puddin’?”

“It’s just until he learns to behave, Duchess,” the Hatter assured. “He will make a perfectly pleasant guest now, though conversation will leave something to be desired! The Cheshire Cat does not threaten to turn people into hats, so I believe he shan’t speak at all.”

“He’s not the Cheshire Cat, you looney!” Cried Harley, distressed. “He’s my Mister J— What did you _do_ to him?”

In a moment she, too, was completely blanked, with a vacant smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“I didn’t like them, anyway,” the Riddler said.

Crane could all but _feel_ the unease sweeping across the table. The creeping, crawling, _fear_ being exuded. Nygma was starting to sweat. Cobblepot’s eyes were flickering, looking for escape, trying to focus anywhere but on the living mannequins. Isley was staring at Harley’s motionless, porcelain face in blank, unprocessed terror. Crane relished in it, momentarily; drinking it all in.

“So, tea?” The Hatter prompted. “While it’s still warm.”

“We haven’t solved the matter of eating,” Batman reminded.

“Oh, I _suppose_ now that that mimsy moggy and the Duchess aren’t at the table we can try something else,” acquiesced the Hatter, agreeably enough. He stood from his chair, pushing it back, and approached Crane, who didn’t move as he drew near.

“You’ve been quiet, Hare,” the Hatter noted. “You’re usually so talkative at tea. Won’t you tell a story?”

“I think I would like some tea first, thank you. My throat is dry.” Crane responded.

“Hum,” said the Hatter. “‘ _Take some more tea,’ the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly.”_

Crane recognized this for what it was— a “battle” of quotes. In the background, the Batman began making minuscule movements now the attention was squarely centered on someone else, and Crane came to a crossroads.

He could accuse the Batman of causing trouble and possibly get him _removed,_ the same way Harley and Joker were; which would mean that, whatever the outcome of the tea-party, he likely wouldn’t go back to Arkham.

But he may also end up dead from a misspoken quote  or chained to Hatter’s chair for who knew how long.

The second choice was to stall Tetch until the Batman could free himself- and given enough time, he would, there was no trap capable of holding the Batman indefinitely- with the caveat being Crane would _definitely_ be taken back to the Asylum.

Well, he could always break out. His chances of escape at Arkham were better than his chances here, pathetic as that may have been for the criminal justice system.

 _“I’ve had nothing yet,”_ Crane responded, _“So I can’t take more.”_

For a moment, he believed the Hatter wouldn’t accept it; Crane hadn’t added “Alice said”, because he simply didn’t know where it was, and he thought it was best to exclude it rather than put it in the wrong place. But it was a break in consistency, because Hatter had said more than just the dialogue…

It turned out to not matter. Tetch beamed, regardless. He moved until he was directly behind Crane, leaning forward to very nearly rest his chin on the lanky psychiatrist’s shoulder. He reached around Crane and, in a deft motion, unlocked the cuff on his left hand and swiftly withdrew.

“Now, don’t think about doing anything boorish,” Tetch warned. “This is strictly for tea, understand? Don’t get any _ideas,_ Hare.”

The other tea-party guests watched, eagerly. They wanted to see what Crane would do.

He thought about ripping his hat off, but without his toxins and half-way tied to a chair, Crane wanted to err on the side of caution.

“Hatter, can you pour for me?” Crane asked, as pleasantly as he could manage. His grandmother had always beat him when he used his left hand for nearly anything, and the stubborn right hand dominance had stuck. If he tried to pour like this, he’d likely burn himself and ruin the tablecloth.

“Oh, of course, Hare. What kind of world would it be / if we didn’t have society?”

Tetch hummed to himself as he poured. Steam curled from the rich, amber-black liquid, unusually inviting to Crane’s weakening stomach. Crane was not typically a fan of tea. He was a coffee drinker. But for some reason…

Once Tetch was done pouring, he straightened. Batman tensed, for just a moment, and Crane wasn’t so unreceptive he didn’t see the request in the grit of his jaw; _stall him._

Crane raised his hand, capturing Tetch’s attention. “Hatter, if you don’t mind indulging me for a moment…”

“Oh, do speak freely,” Tetch encouraged. “Would you like a tart? A biscuit? Bread? A sandwich?”

“I would!” Wesker blurted, desperately. The man had all the spine of a sea cucumber and the will of a soggy plastic bag. It was disgusting.

“Of course, Rabbit,” Tetch said. “Just a moment. What were you saying, Hare?”

“I’d like to hear about how you… _arranged_ this gathering,” Crane said, delicately. “How you were able to assemble all of us here.”

Tetch sat back down with a considerate hum.

Wesker whimper-moaned, realizing he would not be eating after all. Isley shifted, angrily, in her seat. Penguin was starting to sweat. Riddler was trying to indicate that Crane should punch Jervis and take his key by pointed stares and wags of his chin.

It would be Ivy or Penguin who would be the next to have their cards activated; they were too inexperienced at playing games with their captives to know what to do when caught in someone else’s. Crane would bet the freedom of his hand on it.

Crane, somewhat awkwardly, put a lump of sugar in his tea, and began stirring.

“Well, it was simple to begin,” Tetch acknowledged. “I had to ask the Broker, very nice man, to get me this place.”

“And where are we?” Coaxed Crane.

“Wonderland,” Tetch sighed, which was a predictable but annoying answer. “Then it was a matter of apprehending the Jabberwock and getting him to do as I wanted him to. I followed him, and oh, the Jabberwock is quick / even when not getting snacker-snicked… but I managed. I waited and waited until he was worn down and weak, and then I sprung upon him like the bar of a mouse-trap! I slipped a card in his mask / and then he did as I asked! He caught all of the Wonderland crew / and now I’m having tea with you!”

He grew more animated as he spoke, gesturing violently with his hands, eyes alight with eagerness. His words were slurring in his haste.

“Jervis, take a breath,” Crane advised. The Batman ought to hurry. Crane could keep the Hatter entertained, but not forever.

 _If this were a room full of innocent children and orphaned puppies, he would be out by now,_ Crane thought, sourly. _This is an attempt at tormenting us._

 _“‘No one asked your opinion,’ said Alice,”_ Tetch quoted, sourly.

“Apologies,” Crane shook himself out of his thoughts. “How long have we been here, Hatter?”

Tetch smiled wanly. “You, as much as anyone, know Time is not pleased with me right now. I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“You must have some,” Crane pressed.

“Oh, perhaps a day or so; does it matter?” Hatter asked, grudgingly.

A day didn’t seem like much from afar, but knowing he had lost twenty-four hours was slightly upsetting to Crane. His only solace was that he wasn’t the only one bothered by it.

Riddler looked unnerved. Ivy looked _furious._ Penguin gripped the arm rests. Wesker looked as though he would like to crawl into a pit and die. His fear helped temper the unpleasantness of Crane’s realization.

“Oh, no— Mr. Scarface, alone for a whole day?!” Wesker wailed. “No! He needs me!”

Tetch turned his head, interested in whatever was yelling the loudest. “Ah, it’s only natural you’re unhappy about being late, Rabbit—”

“Please!” Wesker cried. “I want to go back to Scarface, I don’t want to be here! I don’t know what’s going on but I just want to g—”

Wesker’s mouth slid shut; Crane had been wrong about who was next. It was fortunate, then, that he hadn’t actually bet his freedom on it.

“Who needs that worry-wart, anyway?” The Hatter said, with a warm, reasonable tone. “No, I prefer the tea-table more tightly knit.”

“The less the better, s’what I say,” Cobblepot nodded, jerkily. “Don’t need this lot musclin’ in where they ain’t wanted, yeah.”

Hatter turned, fascinated. “Oh? Do you commonly have tea-parties, Caterpillar?”

“Ehhh… in what sense’a the word?” Cobblepot asked, hesitantly.

“Crane,” Riddler whispered, just audible above the conversation between Cobblepot and Tetch. “Consider this, for a moment—”

“I won’t jeopardize myself,” Crane responded, in a low murmur. “I’ll strike when the time is right. Not before, and not at your request.”

“When the time is right” meant when Batman freed himself, of course, because it maximized Crane’s chances of escaping in the chaos.

“No, it’s not about escaping, I just want a tart,” Nygma sounded like it hurt him to say. Hunger truly humbled all.

“What do you want me to do, feed it to you?” Crane asked, still not finding it in himself to pity the Riddler’s plight.

Nygma thought for a moment- a rarity even for a man of his genius- then seemed to realize his mistake. “Oh, er— disregard what I said.”

Tetch, meanwhile, was reciting to Cobblepot: “‘ _You are old, Father William,’ the young man said, ‘And your hair has become very white; And yet you stand incessantly on your head — do you think, at your age, is it right?”_

Cobblepot looked to be at a loss, eyes narrowing in suspicion that he was being insulted. Tetch gave him a moment, and when he didn’t respond, continued: _“‘In my youth,’ Father William replied to his son, ‘I feared it might injure the brain; But now I’m perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again.’”_

Another pause.

“Are you bleedin’ callin’ me— old? _Stupid_?” Penguin asked, sounding very much like he would like an excuse to be offended. “Listen, overbite, I’ve had just about enough of this gobshite—”

Cobblepot knew better; Crane _knew_ Cobblepot knew better. But his red-flushed face, contorted with anger and fear, softened into a cold, expressionless frown.

“The Caterpillar never much liked tea, anyway,” The Hatter shrugged, dismissively. “But this is fine! Just the Hatter, the Jabberwock, the Queen, the Dormouse, and the dear March Hare! A party only for five / is still pleasantly alive.”

“You know, Hatter,” Isley’s tone was disconcertingly sweet, “I have places to be, and you shouldn’t keep a lady waiting.”

Tetch looked up, distracted. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to keep you, your Majesty.”

“Then let me go,” Ivy said, thorns bristling from every word; they softened when she added, “I have to… do court things. Behead gardeners.”

“Oh, of course, your Majesty, but would it really pain you to stay? The tea-party just started.”

“I really must be going,” Ivy insisted. “And if you don’t let me go— it’s off with your head.”

Tetch nervously rubbed his throat. “ _‘I’m a poor man, your Majesty— and I hadn’t begun my tea— not above a week or so—”_

“Ugh! You miserable little meat-sack,” Ivy had lost her patience. “Uncuff me from the chair!”

“— _and what with the bread and butter getting so thin—’”_ Tetch stammered. He was giving Isley a chance, a chance to respond with the correct lines; but how could she? Crane could already see her impending fate. He wondered if she was afraid.

“Do you _hear_ me, Hatter?” Isley raged. “Let me go! Your Queen demands it!”

Hatter sighed.

“ _Off with her head,”_ Tetch said, glumly, and a moment later, Ivy’s face went slack, delicate and marmoreal. “Four seems such a _mimsy_ number. Oh, I do wish my guests would simply behave…”

“Hah,” Nygma said. “Can you blame their primitive intellects? They don’t understand how to play the long game. Only the more _intelligent_ and _cunning_ live this long.”

“Sure, Dormouse,” the Hatter said, vaguely. “Hare, you haven’t had any of your tea yet.”

“Ah, yes. Your conversation with the Caterpillar enthralled me, is all.” Inwardly wincing, Crane took the cup in his shaky hand and brought it to his lips, rim clinking against his teeth. He drank, daring to hope it hadn’t been poisoned or tampered with.

It was bitter and malty, but he swallowed it anyway. Life as a black coffee addict had built his resistance to harsher flavors.

“Once you’ve wet your throat, I believe it’s time for you to tell a story, dear Hare,” the Hatter sat back down, beginning to pour his own cup of tea. Crane hazarded a glance at the Batman, who appeared to no longer be moving. Either he was waiting for an opportune time to strike, or the Hatter’s trap was even better than Crane had thought.

“‘ _Suppose we change the subject,’”_ Crane responded, reasonably certain of the line. He had gotten fairly close to memorizing “A Mad Tea-Party”, because it where Hatter most commonly pulled his quotes from. _“‘I’m getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tell us a story.’”_

There was no young lady to respond; Tetch looked crestfallen for a moment.

“‘ _Then the Dormouse shall,’”_ Crane ventured.

Nygma looked momentarily alarmed, then shot Crane a scalding glare.

There it was, reflected in his eyes: _fear._ Nygma was unprepared for this. His boasts about “memorizing the whole book” were unfounded, and his fate was looming ominously over his shoulder: he would become Hatter’s puppet.

In a way, everyone feared being beholden to the whim of someone else. Being mindless, unthinking; performing actions against your will, having your power stripped from you… Or, at the very least, Nygma feared it.

“I—” Nygma’s gaze flicked from Batman to Tetch to Crane and back again. “... Of course. Heh. Once upon a time there was three little sisters— Er, Lacie, Tillie, Ellie…” _Elsie._ “They lived, er, nearby a well…”

Tetch’s smile began to wane as Nygma stumbled, badly, through the story of the treacle sisters. Crane almost pitied him when his mind was taken by the Hatter.

“I thought it would be the Jabberwock who would be next,” Tetch said, ruefully. “He’s behaved himself remarkably well—”

Batman raised his arm faster than Crane thought humanly possible, evidently freed of his restraints; but it wasn’t fast enough to reach his card. His hand dropped into his lap.

“— Up until now,” Tetch corrected himself.

It was just Crane left, yet again. He wondered if it was based solely on his actual skill at manipulation and improvisation, or if the Hatter was allowing breaches in etiquette because the March Hare was the Hatter’s friend.

“I think the tea-party is over,” Crane said, gently, as diplomatically as he could manage. “... _Wake up, Alice, dear.’”_

 _“‘Oh, I’ve had such a curious dream,’”_ Jervis said, mostly to himself. “Hmm. You may be right, Hare—”

“Crane,” Crane corrected.

The Hatter blinked. “Eh?”

“My name is Jonathan Crane; or the Scarecrow, if you prefer. We’ve met before.” Crane reminded, testing the waters. The Hatter seemed in a more malleable mood now that his party was down to just two.

“Of course we’ve met,” puffed the Hatter. “How could I ever forget? How could I not know your face / when you never even leave this place?”

“I have left the tea table before,” Crane told him, levelly. “You abducted me. Do you remember?”

Tetch’s lip curled. “You shan’t take that tone with me, Hare. It’s rude.”

 _“Crane,”_ Crane repeated. “My name is _Crane._ Jonathan Crane.”

“Oh, does it matter?” Tetch said, impatiently.

“I am not going to drink a drop of this tea until you call me _Crane,_ Hatter.” It was a gamble, but one he hoped would pay off. If it didn’t, he would just have to try again the next time Hatter roused him. “And that isn’t how it’s supposed to go, is it?”

The Hatter swallowed. “I can _make_ you.”

“But we both know that’s not the same. Your conscience won’t leave you alone until people do what you want _without_ controlling their minds.” It was why he had so much trouble keeping an Alice.

“Oh— oh, all-RIGHT,” The Hatter slammed his fist on the table. “Crane! Crane, Crane, Crane. By any name you’re still my Hare. Now, let’s have tea, please?”

“My other hand,” Crane said. “I’d like it freed.”

Tetch wrung his hands. It was a considerable improvement that he was even thinking about it. “You must promise— _promise—_ you’ll use it only for tea.”

“I promise,” Crane said. He thought for a moment about humoring the Hatter— then about the fact that he had been held captive in some kind of basement for twenty-four hours. That shredded most of his feelings of goodwill towards Jervis.

The Hatter approached Crane, key withdrawn; he very delicately unlocked Crane’s other hand.

Crane thought about strangling his squat captor, but thought better of it, and instead reached for one of the little tea sandwiches. Hatter, who had been tensed for a fight or flight situation, relaxed and headed back to his chair.

“You should get back on your medication, Jervis,” Crane told him. It was a cucumber sandwich. Eating it only made him feel hungrier.

“Oh, Hare- Er, Crane- thank you for the concern, but I don’t want it.” Hatter finished a cup of tea and quickly poured  himself a new one. “I always feel so tired.”

“Isn’t it worth it, though?” Crane asked. Professional curiosity was getting the better of him; he _was_ a licensed psychiatrist, after all. “To get rid of your more… _Frightening_ hallucinations.”

Hatter’s expression flickered. “Oh, no. It’s all frabjous and wonderful in Wonderland! That’s the point. _There’s no frightening things here.”_

“And what of the Jabberwock?” Crane asked. “The jubjubs and boojums and frumious Bandersnatches. Do they not stalk you when you’re away from your tea-party?”

Hatter grabbed the brim of his hat with both his hands. “It’s fortunate it’s always tea-time, then,” he said, tremulously.

“Not if you invited the boojums to your party,” Crane told him, trying to sound deeply sympathetic. “That isn’t the Cheshire Cat. That’s not the Red Queen, or the Dormouse, or the White Rabbit.”

Hatter trembled, eyes darting around. Realization dawned across his face, and Crane watched, fascinated, as he began to hyperventilate. “Oh no. Oh no, oh no— I was so sure they were—!”

“You would’ve known if you had taken your medication, Jervis.” Crane said, coaxingly. He took another sandwich, chewing considerately on a thin slice of cucumber.

Hatter let out a frustrated cross between a regretful moan and a sob. “Oh, what do I do, Hare?”

Crane stood, removed his hat, and said, “What makes you think I’m not a boojum, too?”

  



	2. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crane escapes with the Hatter’s help, ignoring the red flags; they must just be there for decoration, right?

Crane was a light sleeper, which could be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on if he was inside or outside Arkham Asylum. 

Inside Arkham, it meant that he was often restless, because the slightest sound could disturb his slumber. There were the obvious things, like Joker refusing to shut up and caterwauling until the guards sedated him, or the sound of Edward Nygma swearing and cursing and shuffling around in his cell, trying to create a riddle so dastardly even Batman couldn’t solve it. But it was more than that; Crane woke whenever footsteps patrolled past his door, multiple times a night. It was useless to make a complaint; what could he do, ask the guards to stop guarding? 

This sensitivity was a  _ good  _ thing outside of Arkham, though. When Crane was holed up in some loft in the Gotham docks, it meant that he would be awake and ready the moment someone tried to open the door. If he were dozing in a condemned building, he would hear someone slipping quietly through a shattered window. It meant that surprises- like those the Batman were fond of- were harder to pull off. 

All of that noted, Crane was in Arkham, and he awoke the second his door swung open. 

“‘ _ Oh my ears and whiskers, how late it’s getting.’”  _ Crane recognized the voice, and sat up, quickly. 

Jervis Tetch stood before him, in his long frock coat and top-hat, ring of keys in hand and a bundle of clothes under one arm, framed by a dim halo of light from the hallway. 

“ _ Jervis?”  _ Crane asked, in a hushed whisper. “What are you—?” 

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m breaking you out, of course.”

Crane was out of bed in a moment. He had no valuable possessions that he could not do without, and no way to carry them, besides. The Hatter blocked his exit.

“I already took the liberty of getting your things from the Vault,” Tetch explained. “Your scythe- big, nasty weapon, it’s a wonder you can carry it!- and your clothes.” 

The Hatter tried to shuffle his keys into his pocket and replace them with bundle under his arm, intending to offer the garments to Crane. 

“Keep it,” Crane said, holding up a hand to stop him. “I’ll change later. We move  _ now.” _

Jervis grinned. Crane pushed him out into the hallway and closed his door, quietly. 

“Is that an escape attempt I hear?” Joker bawled from inside his cell. “I want out, too! It’s not fair!” 

Angry mutterings started up from the newly awoken; loudest of all, Riddler began begging to be set free. 

Since sneaking out undetected was no longer an option, Crane dashed down the hallway, his only concern being  _ not getting caught.  _ The price of being caught in an escape attempt was  _ severe,  _ and usually involved the Batman in some way or another. Crane was only just shaking off his last cracked rib, and wasn’t looking forward to another. 

Jervis was right behind him, holding onto his hat with one hand and only just managing to keep pace. He panted,  _ “‘You may go,’ said the King, and the Hatter hurriedly left the court—”  _

“Keep focused, Jervis,” Crane said, sharply. “We’re not in Wonderland right now.”

“Right, right, of course,” Jervis puffed. 

They came to the end of the cell block. Jervis fumbled for his keyring. 

“Oh, blast,” Jervis muttered, hastily jamming keys into the lock, trying one after another. “Oh, I haven’t the foggiest which one opens the door—”

Crane grabbed for the keys, startling Jervis, who dropped them. Crane knelt, grabbed them, and began flicking through them to find the right one. He’d gotten plenty of chances to watch the guards unlock the door when being escorted to and from his cell, and had burned the jagged metal shape into his memory in case he’d ever gotten a chance like this. 

He stuffed the key in the lock and turned it, then pushed open the door and handed the keys back to Jervis. 

They scampered through the next hallway.

“Where did you put my scythe?” Crane asked. “You said you had it.”

“I left it with my guard,” he told Crane. “It was too cumbersome for me to carry.”

“Your guard?”

“Oh, yes. I borrowed some minds for my escape attempt, you know. A few doctors, a few guards—”

“What do you need me for, then?” Crane asked, suspiciously. 

“Need you for?” Tetch shot him a curious look. “Why, I don’t need you for anything, Crane.” 

“What? Then why break me out?” 

“For the company, of course! One can hardly escape alone. It’s just not how things are done, you know.” Tetch explained. “It wouldn’t do well to leave by your lonesome when you could take someone with you.” 

That was a very long and elaborate way of saying he was lonely, but it seemed  _ peculiar  _ he would pick Crane, considering the events of a few weeks ago. 

( The Mad Hatter had kidnapped a handful of people and taken over their minds- Joker, Poison Ivy, and Batman among the noticeable number- for a mad little tea party in a basement in the middle of Gotham. Crane had tried to kill Hatter [which he did not feel sorry for at all] and Hatter had bid Batman to protect him. In the ensuing struggle, Crane had accidentally broken the card in Batman’s mask, and the rest was predictable: Batman, no longer under Hatter’s influence, broke Crane’s ribs, took Hatter’s hat, and hauled every rogue at the tea party back to Arkham Asylum, where they had all remained up until this precise moment. )

It didn’t add up. Crane had tried to  _ kill  _ Tetch. Actually, literally, made a genuine effort to murder him. And now the Hatter was breaking him out.

Was it an attempt at an apology for taking Crane to the tea party? Or had the Hatter  _ imprinted  _ on him because he’d been the best guest pre-murder attempt? 

They reached a stairwell that they hurried down. 

“Where are your guards?” Crane asked. 

“I sent the one with your scythe to get us transportation,” Tetch responded, slightly out of breath. “The others are waiting outside the penitentiary to escort us—”

“How many do you have under your control?” 

“Oh, perhaps a dozen or so,” the Hatter said. “I have a few more cards left; would you like a couple, just in case? Slip it in a hat-band or in the collar of their shirt, and then they’ll be mine.” At the bottom of the stairs, Tetch began digging into his inner jacket pocket, and produced a handful of thin, flexible metal cards. Crane took two; he had no pockets, so he tightly held onto the cold slips of metal. They continued on their way.

There was a security checkpoint up ahead— Crane tensed in preparation for a fight or alarm, but he needn’t have bothered. Hatter waltzed, unconcernedly, towards the doors. 

“Hello, Mr. Hatter,” the guard said, dazedly, from the booth he was sitting in. There was a card placed in his hat, and a dull look in his eye. “Good-bye, Mr. Hatter.” 

“Good-bye!” Tetch waved, and pushed open the door. A gust of cold air rushed in from outside, and the two criminals stepped from the penitentiary to the grounds. 

A group of people- four guards and a handful of doctors- milled by the entrance, talking to one another in conversational tones. What Crane noticed- other than the fact that they didn’t even look in the escapees’ direction- was that they were talking nonsense; word-vomiting to one another in a believable, casual tone and rhythm, but not in any capacity that made sense. 

“Alice Mouse Frog tea Duchess the mimsy fall King of Hearts,” A doctor said, ponderously. 

“Mushroom caterpillar walrus, the singer tea-tray piglet pepper,” A guard responded in a gruff tone. 

“Frabjous, rose Dormouse,” Another doctor added. 

“Everyone,” Tetch said, brightly. They all stopped talking, turning their attentive, though vacant, faces in his direction. “I’ve gotten Crane. Now it’s time to go.” 

“What were you thinking for our escape, Jervis?” Crane asked. There were  _ so  _ many ways you could break out of prison with an entire army of men at your disposal. 

“Hah! Nothing so gaudy or difficult as going through the front entrance,” Jervis said, smiling crookedly.  “It’ll only take a few guards to scale the walls, and I already borrowed the minds of the men who are supposed to be patrolling the grounds and keeping watch to the south-east. Now it’s just a question if _ you  _ will—”

Jervis stopped, mid-sentence, and in a sing-song voice, continued with:  _ “Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you—”  _

The entire entourage of doctors and guards accompanied him, creating a low, thunderous hum of “will you, won’t you,” until Crane intervened.

“Jervis, focus.” He reminded. 

=

In the depths of the penitentiary, a patrolling guard named Taylor Braun glanced over at Michael Sheeton, the guard who was supposed to be manning the security checkpoint. Michael had been completely blank and tired-looking all night, almost zombielike, which was a little creepy on its own. Still, it was only now- when Michael broke his hours-long vigil to softly sing  _ “Will you, won’t you”  _ under his breath in the freakiest way possible- that Taylor went over to see what the hell was wrong. 

As soon as he got closer to Michael, Taylor noticed the slender little card sticking out of his hat, and scrambled for the alarm. 

> =

“Jervis! We don’t have time for this!” Crane tried  _ very  _ hard to not sound impatient.

“ _ Will you join the dance—” _

“The Jabberwock is going to try to  _ kill  _ us if we don’t move, Hatter,” Crane told him, urgently. 

That did it. Jervis’s eyes widened and his mouth shut; he seemed to re-assess himself, the situation. “Oh, I’m sorry, Crane. I lost my train of thought, is all— where were we?”

“Escaping,” Crane prompted.  

“Ah! Yes. Of course.” The Hatter glanced around. “This way, Crane.” 

They hurried, with their accompaniment, to the walls. Arkham had been made out of an decrepit insane asylum from back in the 1800s, stripped of its innards and re-fitted with new locks and checkpoints. The thing about that, though, was that most of the eye was turned inward; trying to shake the ghosts from their cracks, removing the old history of torture and imprisonment by taking away the rusty chains and instruments of cruelty and painting everything with a brighter, more aesthetically pleasing whitewash. 

The walls and the grounds were left as they were, for the most part. Nervous contractors came in and mowed or trimmed a few times a year, and were often verbally harassed or cajoled by inmates from a distance, but that was the worst of it. There was no replanting or renovation; all the oaks were old and there wasn’t a damn bit of budget for planting new peonies or anything nice or pleasant. 

The fence was, more or less, the original fence. Fifteen feet tall and made of wrought iron, cold and Stygian. Each individual pole was an inch or so in width, and four inches apart; too thin for anyone to squeeze through, even an emaciated scarecrow. At the tip of each was a wicked-looking four inch spike, dulled by time but likely still painful to fall on. 

“Up you go!” Jervis warbled, cheerfully. Their entourage assembled a human pyramid with gearlike efficiency, locking together in a staircase of limbs with their backs serving as steps. 

“Jervis, a fifteen foot drop will break a bone,” Crane cautioned, warily. The price of freedom was worth a broken ankle, maybe even a cracked pelvis, but it would be a lot harder to get away while crippled. 

There was a hum of a car engine, somewhere nearby, heading towards them; Crane stiffened, then just as quickly, relaxed. There was no way to hide from anyone passing by, so he would stand his ground.

The car- which proved to be fairly old, though well maintained, suggesting the owner was lower middle-class- parked almost right in front of them. 

The driver got out. He was a large, heavyset man in an Arkham guard uniform, and he trod blankly over to the edge of the fence. There was a card in his hat. 

Jervis was already climbing on top of the human pyramid. Very carefully, he balanced on top of the fence, each foot astride a spike; he wobbled, for a moment, and jumped, keeping a hand firmly on the brim of his hat. Crane prepared for the sound of snapping bones. 

The guard caught Jervis, buckling under his weight, but managing to recover. He gingerly set Jervis down, and the hatter stood and dusted off his coat. He removed his hand from his hat with a slight flourish. 

“Come, come, Crane! No time to waste!” Jervis called. 

Crane stared, in slight trepidation, at the staircase of flesh before him. He was faced with a choice: trust the maniac or don’t. Which would leave him worse off?

Sirens began to wail. Lights swirled urgently, cutting through the eternal fog Gotham was mired in. Lockdown. The guards would sweep through the grounds and do a headcount of the prisoners. Batman would be summoned. The security would be tightened to a choke for weeks; no yard time, no leisure, for even those who were demonstratively innocent. 

He and Jervis needed to go. 

He scrambled up the piled bodies, vaulted boldly over the fence, and prayed he wouldn’t break something. 

Crane was caught by Jervis’s guard. It knocked the breath out of his lungs and hurt, yes, but it didn’t hurt the way  _ fractured pelvis  _ or  _ shattered ribs  _ do. It was brief, it was quiet, it was the kind of pain Crane could deal with and get used to. 

He waited a beat while the guard gingerly set him on his feet, then attempted to inhale. From experience, breathing too soon after the air was forced out of your lungs hurt. 

It didn’t hurt. 

The guard took the driver’s seat. Jervis took the passenger’s side. Crane was left in the back; his scythe was on the floor, blade gleaming. The car rumbled quietly over the pavement. 

“There’s another checkpoint down this road,” Crane said. “They won’t let us through.” 

“You would think, between the two of us, we could get through a little checkpoint!” Jervis admonished. 

Crane fumbled around in the back. There was, maybe, a quarter mile between the Asylum parking lot and the final checkpoint, and while they didn’t have time to dawdle, he thought they ought to have a better plan than “try to ram through a metal barrier and get shot in the process”. 

“We have the guard. The cards.” Jervis reminded, as if sensing his thoughts. “Your scythe.” 

Speaking of which. The professor picked up his scythe from where it lay. 

Crane liked the weight of a heavy oak handle in his hands. It wasn’t the most convenient weapon; a gun worked far better at killing people, and in fact, he did employ firearms on occasion, but  _ aesthetic  _ was important. A scarecrow with a blade like a reaper was so much more innately terrifying to primal human fear than a strawman with a pistol. 

“Does your guard have a gun?” Crane asked. 

“Oh, I suppose he might, I haven’t checked.” 

“Better in our hands than his,” Crane said, tightly. “Are you a good shot?”

“No,” Jervis admitted. “Are you?”

“No,” Crane said. Silent tension filled the car like smoke. Crane attempted to nonverbally imply that  _ he would like the gun, please.  _

“... are you a  _ decent  _ shot?” Jervis tried. 

“I can hit something if it’s in front of me,” Crane told him. He should’ve just lied and said he was a good shot. Why didn’t he do that? 

“Here, then,” Jervis reached around the guard, who did not so much as blink when the milliner began patting around his waist. Hatter took the guard’s truncheon for his own, but passed Crane the holstered pistol without argument. 

He was trusting.  _ Too  _ trusting. Crane could just shoot him and take his hat— had that even  _ occurred  _ to Jervis? 

Probably not. 

Crane very carefully checked the safety and tested the weight and grip of the gun. He had no professional training, nor time at a gun range under his belt; all of his experience was field experience, so to speak, and even that he didn’t have much of. When you had adversaries like the Batman- who  _ always  _ dodged bullets like he had a special sixth sense for bullet avoidance- actually shooting someone was not easy. 

Crane didn’t have that much experience fighting at all, in truth; whether with melee weapons or over long distances, and  _ especially  _ in close-quarters when armed with only his body. That was why he preferred long, sharp weapons that gave him distance, but not  _ too  _ much distance, despite how cumbersome they could be. 

He knew how to use a scythe. His grandmother thought it built character, or some such. Every time he touched blade’s the oaken handle, Crane could almost feel the blistering heat of the Georgia sun and the painful calluses developing on his fingers. It filled him with a sort of grim, long-buried feeling of  _ vengeance,  _ determination to cut an adversary to ribbons. 

Not that that was relevant. It was a weapon he could wield with skill, and  _ any _ skill was a leg up on a lack of it. 

The car slowed to a crawl. Crane’s palms were sweating, despite the coolness of the night. The Arkham guards were a different flavor than Batman. Batman didn’t kill. Arkham guards didn’t care. They shot escapees on sight. 

Their headlights reflected off the raggedy grass. Insects buzzed. The glare was bright against the darkness. The tempo of the crickets was slow, only audible because Jervis’ guard had rolled down the window in preparation to pass through the checkpoint.

Crane set his left hand on the door handle and ducked low, preparing to move. Jervis seemed unconcerned, mindlessly smiling as they inched closer to the checkpoint. 

Crane’s mind fleetingly wondered what the hatter was afraid of, if not this… Crane anticipated that Jervis, when exposed to the fear toxin, would have a unique, more piercingly psychological fear than that of death or injury. He wondered if it would manifest in a Wonderland hallucination, or if it would pierce the veil of reality. He wondered if the fear toxin would even  _ work  _ on Jervis. 

The car pulled to a stop. Crane’s muscles tensed. Hatter moved, minutely— 

At the same time, two car doors opened; Crane threw himself out of the car, just a split-second before Hatter. 

The checkpoint was small and brick. There were two guards. Reinforcements hadn’t arrived yet; they’d likely only gotten the warning of escaped prisoners a moment ago. 

But still, they had prepared. The barricade between the road to Arkham and the road to a more reasonable part of Gotham was blocked with sliding metal guardposts that’d likely break the car before the car could get through them. In all honesty, trying to ram through the second wrought-iron fence that encircled Arkham would probably prove more fruitful. 

The two guards manning the checkpoint had their weapons drawn already, and the sound of gunfire, going off the  _ moment  _ the doors opened, deafened Crane. He shot back, blindly; if he waited to aim, he’d get killed. There was a scream. He dove behind the car. More gunfire rattled his skull. His heart beat a frantic staccato.

There was silence, then a wet-sounding yell of agony. Crane hazarded a look back out. One of the guards had a card stuck to his helmet. The other was crumpled in a heap on the ground, bleeding onto the asphault. Crane carefully got up, sidling towards the fallen guard; the professor delicately toed his gun away from him, making sure it was well out of reach if he wasn’t quite dead yet.

“That could’ve gone worse,” Crane admitted, grudgingly. Hatter fingered the ragged hole that a bullet had made through the crown of his hat; if it had been a few inches lower, it would’ve most definitely killed him. 

“Can you get the gate?” Hatter asked. “I’ll get the car.” 

Crane didn’t reply, but headed for the booth. Although there was a mess of buttons and dials, everything was plainly labeled, and getting rid of the barricades was as simple as turning keys- which were slotted in already- and pulling a lever. 

The metal barricade groaned, then slid up with a loud shuddering of shutters. 

It was then, with the promising freedom of the long, winding road back to civilization open, that Crane asked himself when he would be leaving the Hatter’s company. Now seemed like as good a time as any. Batman would be focused on the Hatter’s trail, and wouldn’t suspect that Crane would leave on foot…

Footsteps crunched up the gravel behind him, and he half-way turned. 

The Arkham guard under Jervis’s control was behind him; before Crane could say anything, his fist drove itself into Crane’s stomach. He bent double, all the air punched out of his lungs.

The guard grabbed for Crane, pinning his arms behind his back; he kicked Crane in the back of the knee, and the professor buckled to the ground.

Jervis approached once Crane had been secured, and Crane, his eyes watering, knees stinging, and lungs threatening to collapse, sensed he was about to be monologued to. 

“What a frabjous little pair we make,” Jervis’s smile was toothy. He stooped in the gravel, and revealed a thin, glinting strip of metal between his fingers; Crane struggled to keep himself from screaming in rage or desperation. 

“Now that all this nastiness is over… I think I’ll keep you.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, 95% of this was written a month or two ago, so if anything sounds tonally jarring, I’m sorry. 
> 
> Also I’m sorry I’m posting so much lol

**Author's Note:**

> babby’s first batman fanfic, please leave comments, or suggestions for future works


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